Bloody, Bold and Resolute
by Evandar
Summary: A collection of ten ficlets based on quotes from Shakespeare's play Macbeth. Canon compliant, pretty dark.
1. A Shadow of his Former Self

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Macbeth and I am making no money from this collection of stories.

AN: These were originally written for the 10 Shakespeare LiveJournal community, where a writer is invited to write ten short stories for a Fandom of their choice based on quotes from one of Shakespeare's plays or poems. I chose Macbeth for the play and Harry Potter for the Fandom. Anyway, I hope you enjoy these.

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A Shadow of his Former Self

by Evandar

"_We have scorched the snake, not killed it."_ – Macbeth

"You cannot be serious Albus!"

Albus looked gravely over the frames of his half-moon spectacles at Minerva McGonagall. She wasn't the only member of his staff that was staring at him in horror, but she was by far the most vocal. He sighed and laced his fingers together to stop himself from pinching the bridge of his nose or reaching for a painkilling potion.

"On the contrary, Minerva," he said calmly. "I am not joking, and will never joke, when it comes to the matter of Lord Voldemort."

She shuddered at the name along with the rest of his colleagues. "But he's gone," she said. "There's been no sign of him in three years!"

"Actually, my sources say that he has been sighted in Albania," Albus corrected. "A mere shadow of his former self to be sure, but he is still alive. We have scorched the snake, not killed it."

She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips at the strange phrasing but said nothing. Instead she jerked her thumb at the youngest member of staff. "Has his Mark been burning?" she asked.

Severus glowered at her from his place by the window, his eyes glittering darkly, but she didn't spare him a glance. She kept her gaze fixed on Albus, letting him know that she still disapproved of his appointing the ex-Death Eater as their resident Potions Master.

"Severus has not reported such an occurrence, no," Albus admitted. "To my knowledge, the Dark Mark remains faded. It is a shadow of its former self just like the man who created it."

Minerva sat back in her chair, her hands clasped in her lap. She didn't believe him; he could see it in her eyes. "Why is he waiting then?" she asked. "Why hasn't he made a move?"

"I would not like to say," Albus said quietly.

"What better way to attack than quietly, when everyone believes he is dead?" said a low voice.

Minerva turned in her seat to look at Severus coldly. He ignored her, keeping his piercing stare fixed on Albus' face. Albus nodded at him, and Severus returned to glowering out of the window as he had been doing previously.

Albus smiled reassuringly at Minerva as she turned back to him, a worried look on her face. She truly did not like Severus' presence in the castle; resenting him, perhaps, for living while three of her favourite students had died and another had been sent to Azkaban.

"Albus…" she started, but Albus raised a hand to cut her off.

"Severus is right Minerva, and I trust his judgement in this matter," he told her. "Voldemort will strike when he has gathered enough strength to, and when the Wizarding world has returned to a peaceful lull."

"Then…then…what should we do?" she asked. "What can we do?"

"We wait," Albus told her. "That is all we can do for now: wait and watch for any sign of his return. That way, we will be prepared."

She nodded, reassured that he had something that resembled a plan. But from his seat by the window, Severus frowned at the headmaster, thinking – no doubt – the same thing as Albus himself: 'Nothing can prepare us for this.'


	2. Occlumency

Disclaimer: See the first ficlet.

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Occlumency

by Evandar

_False face must hide what the false heart doth know. – Macbeth_

The first time Severus picked up a book on Occlumency was on his first ever visit to Diagon Alley. He had gone with the Evans family – his father had forbidden his mother to go, and had beaten her when she had tried to argue – and he had wandered into the Mind Arts section by accident. He had read the back, and had been interested, but the price of the book made him put it back. It had cost more than all of his first year text books altogether.

The second time was in his fifth year, just after his OWLs. Falling out with Lily had driven him further into his studies, and he was running out of books in the library to read. He missed her, but his pride wouldn't allow him to apologise, and neither would the other Slytherins. If he went crawling back to the lowly Gryffindor mudblood – never mind that she had been his best and only friend for most of his life – then they would know, and they would never let him live it down.

Severus had been wandering through the edges of the Divination section, where the books on dream divinations were, when he had spotted it: the very book he had picked up five years earlier. Reverently he pulled it down from the shelf and ran his long-fingered hands over the black leather bindings. The book held a new, exciting, and reputedly difficult subject for him to devour.

And devour it was exactly what he did. He read every book on the subjects of Occlumency and Legillimency that he could find, and he practised the arts daily.

And never was he more grateful for his Mastery of the art when he lied to Voldemort's face and told him again and again that he was his most loyal and most faithful servant.


	3. Horcrux

Disclaimer: See the first ficlet.

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Horcrux

by Evandar

_"Something wicked this way comes" - Witches_

Horcrux.

The word had stayed in his head ever since he'd first read it; a magic so Dark that not even an author of Dark Arts texts could bring himself to explain it. The word was poetry to Tom's ears; the sound of it rolled off his tongue when he whispered it at night to the canopy of his bed and sent shivers down his spine.

He had searched the library extensively, but found nothing. His frustration had led him to his Head of House, an odious man with a hunger for fame and who had answers to everything. And the answers, when he received them, were worth the sickening hours spent at the Slug Club sucking up to a man he loathed.

Horcrux. A fragment of one's soul trapped and preserved in an object forever.

But to fragment his soul, Tom would have to kill. That could be messy; too problematic to do it at Hogwarts, where Dumbledore's eyes peered too closely at his business. He would have to do it outside, and that meant waiting until he was seventeen so the Ministry was not brought down on his head.

Horcrux.

Tom lay on his back on his bed, fingers tracing idle patterns on the leather cover of his diary. A cheap thing, but one that shared his darkest thoughts and lusts and that knew his heart better than any mortal man could hope to.

He had his first vessel.

Horcrux.

He closed his eyes in thought, and smiled dreamily when his imagination brought forth a picture of the man who had sired him; a man whose face and name he had borrowed for sixteen years. A man he hated above all others.

"Father," he whispered to the green canopy above him. "Yours will be a noble sacrifice."

A small laugh escaped him as he imagined the power of the Killing Curse flowing through his body and out of his wand, and the power that the spell would grant him. He clutched his diary to his chest.

"Soon."


	4. The Blood on his Hands

Disclaimer: See the first ficlet.

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The Blood on his Hands

by Evandar

"_What, will these hands ne'er be clean?" – Lady Macbeth_

Harry shot up in bed, a scream about to burst from his lips. He managed to hold it back, instead choosing to let out a shaky breath as his pounding heart began to calm. By his side Ginny shifted, rolling onto her back, but she didn't wake up. He stared down at her, envying her peaceful sleep.

He slid out of bed and picked his boxers up off the floor, slipping them on before padding barefoot out of the room and into the kitchen. He couldn't stay with her. Not right now. He leaned back against the kitchen bench and buried his face in his hands, wishing that for once he could sleep through the night without seeing the faces of the people he could have saved but hadn't; that he could touch his girlfriend without feeling like he was tainting her.

So many were dead. There were so many people who had their blood on his hands because he hadn't been quick enough.

"Harry?"

He didn't look up. He knew what he'd see if he did: Ginny leaning against the doorframe, her fiery hair tumbling down around her to frame her face and rest on her naked breasts; her brown eyes shining with pity that he hated.

"Harry, come back to bed," she said, and he realised that he could hear it too.

"I can't," he told her, lifting his head enough to peek over the tips of his fingers and stare at the opposite wall. "I'm not tired."

He heard her sigh, but he didn't look at her. "It isn't your fault," she said.

He didn't answer her. He wanted to scream that it was his fault that they were gone, but he wasn't fifteen years old anymore and he had learned to control his temper that much. Instead he stood still until she sighed again, and her quiet footsteps faded as she returned to their bedroom.

That was when he lowered his hands completely, and cringed as he looked at them. They were red, to his eyes, with the blood of his friends and the people he had claimed as family; with the blood of the people who had died just because their parentage was different.

He wouldn't get any more sleep that night.


	5. Werewolf

Disclaimer: See the first ficlet.

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Werewolf

by Evandar

"_What's done cannot be undone" – Lady Macbeth_

Remus watched as his parents spoke to the Healer, and watched as his mother's face crumpled into an expression he had never seen her wear before. Even if he'd never seen it, he recognised it for what it was: pure, heart-rending grief. His father, on the other hand, kept his face blank, though when his mother burst into tears, he wrapped his arms around her to comfort her.

He couldn't hear what the Healer was telling them, but he knew it wasn't good. In one moment of panic, he wondered if he was dying, but he dismissed the thought almost immediately. He didn't feel like he was dying, though his shoulder ached despite the painkillers he had been given.

The Healer bowed his head, and Remus strained his ears to catch the whispered apology that fell from his lips.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But there's nothing we can do."

His mother buried her face in his father's neck and sobbed. Remus looked up to meet his father's gaze, and flinched when he saw the pain there. His father had never looked at him like that.

"What's wrong with me daddy?" he asked, feeling oddly proud when his voice remained firm.

His father closed his eyes briefly, like he did when he was trying not to be angry only this time Remus knew that it wasn't anger he was holding back this time.

"You've been turned into a -" his father broke off, swallowing back grief "- a werewolf, Remus. I'm so sorry. There isn't a cure."

His mother wailed, and Remus wondered if it would be better if he'd died after all.


	6. The Greater Good

Disclaimer: See the first ficlet.

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The Greater Good

by Evandar

"_Be bloody, bold and resolute: laugh to scorn the power of man." – Apparition Two_

"Imagine it, Albus," he said dreamily as he leaned back against the apple tree in his aunt's garden. "The two of us, lords over death and the wisest of our people, leading wizardkind to strength and glory."

Albus sat mesmerised, his gaze fixed on the sunbeams reflecting off Gellert's hair. Gellert, he knew, was the kind of man who could convince you that grass was purple and the sky was green, all without a whit of magic. He was handsome, strong and passionate about everything he believed in. And he believed in Albus.

"The Deathly Hallows are the key," Gellert continued, waving a hand through the air. "They are everything. We should start with the quest to find them, but more publicly build up our reputations in society."

"Men have grown old and died searching for the Hallows," Albus said. "You're so sure you can find them."

"If I was on my own, then I couldn't," Gellert admitted. He reached out to touch Albus' cheek, and Albus willingly leaned into the gentle caress. "But I have you with me," Gellert continued, running his thumb over Albus' lower lip. "And together we are the greatest minds of our generation, possibly even the world. Together…we can do anything."

Albus smiled, and pressed a brief kiss to the pad of Gellert's thumb. Gellert grinned at him widely and dropped his hand back onto the grass. His eyes sparkled with warmth and laughter.

"Together," he said. "We can _be_ anything. And I promise you, Albus. The glory, the power, and the respect that we will earn will be worth the wait, no matter how long our search takes us."

And Albus – as he moved to lean against the tree next to Gellert, sitting so that their shoulders were just touching and so that their linked fingers could be hidden in the long grass – believed him.

"It's for the greater good," Gellert murmured, and Albus believed that too.


	7. Burning Bright

**Disclaimer:** See the first ficlet.

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Burning Bright

by Evandar

_"The love that follows us sometime is our trouble" _- Duncan

The boy was sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands gripping at thin grey sheets and his pale green eyes staring up at him – the stranger – in poorly disguised fear and distrust.

He was a pretty child. The orphanage's poor funds meant he was thinner and smaller than he should have been, but his clothes were clean and they fit him moderately well, though the colour – grey, like everything else – did nothing for the boy's already pale complexion. He looked nearly chalk white; an illusion not helped by the way he was pressing his lips so tightly together that they could hardly be seen, nor by the sweep of jet-black locks that fell over his brow.

"You the doctor, then?" he said, and his voice was as washed out as the rest of him.

_There were times when he had thought Gellert wouldn't know the meaning of silence if it Stunned him, tied him up, and hung him from the ceiling by his toes. His voice carried even when he was trying to be quiet, like when they spoke in hushed tones of the Hallows and their plans – so many plans – for the greater good of the Wizarding world. It was why so many of thei discussions were carried out outside, where distance from civilisation would grant them enough privacy to talk properly and in depth as they trailed gentle fingers over each others' hands._

The boy had listed, at his request, what he could do. The faint tone of reverence – barely there at all – showing that the child was hardly willing to believe that any of this was real, and that surely someone, somewhere was playing a joke on him. Or maybe he believed that he would be punished for showing too much pleasure in his own power, and that someone would take it away.

A life in a Muggle orphanage had taught him to be possessive of what he saw as his own.

_He was a possessive young man. Once he had Albus in his life he never wanted to relinquish that grasp. Finally, he had found an equal. Someone who could match him word for word, thought for thought. Someone who could see that his plans were or the greater good._

_And Albus was more than happy to be possessed by this beautiful, shining, vibrant boy with his quick wit, sharp mind and brilliant ideas. More than happy, perhaps, because he owned Gellert in equal measure. He was the one who doctored Gellert's plans, either by playing Devil's Advocate or the conscience. _

"I can speak to snakes too, sir. They find me, and they whisper things. Is that normal, sir?"

Tom Riddle was a pretty child, who would one day grow into a stunning young man. As darkly pale as the moon, and just as mysterious. Even at the tender age of eleven he radiated power and he could only grow stronger. He was a Parselmouth – a clear sign of a Dark wizard in the making if there ever was one, in Albus' opinion – and he wasn't ashamed of his abilities. No, he'd waited until the end to reveal this, and Albus could see the desire to impress burning in those eyes.

And the intelligence. He was so like Gellert, bursting with questions that would turn to ideas that would, inevitably, turn to a quest for more and more and more until Tom Riddle, the pale little orphan was swallowed up by a powerful, capable wizard.

For a moment, Albus could see golden curls instead of black, and sapphire eyes instead of green, and a warm tan instead of malnutrition's distinctive paleness, and his hand lingered over his wand. Then the image was gone, replaced with Tom Riddle as he was; just a child. Not an innocent child, but one who would find his own way whether Albus wished it or not.

"No," he said. "It's not unheard of, but it isn't common."

And Tom Riddle, despite his pallor, for one moment burned as brightly as the Gellert Grindelwald of Dumbledore's youth.


	8. Fairytale

**Disclaimer: **See the first ficlet.

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Fairytale

by Evandar

_"Fair is foul, and foul is fair"_ - Witches

He was exactly the way that she thought Harry Potter should be. He was kind and sympathetic, and he praised her and paid attention to her while her brothers and the real Harry acted as if she was invisible. He was a knight in shining armour wrapped in the parchment of an old Muggle diary. He was a fairytale. He was her Tom.

He soothed her when her memory began to fade. He would comfort her when people started to be petrified and when she woke up with blood on her hands and feathers on her robes. But despite his kind words, she would wash her hands for hours trying to get the stains off, and get rid of the stench of death and copper.

She would scrub and scrub and wish that her fairytale knight was real just so he could hold her.

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He was covered in slime and ink and blood, and there was a silver sword clutched in his hand. He was staring at her with green, green eyes, and deep down past her fear and shame she could see the shards of the boy he could have been.

He could have been a hero, Harry Potter, like the ones from her story books; like Tom had been before he'd almost taken her life. He could have been like the Harry Potter she had always imagined – sort of like a cross between Bill and Charlie and their father, only more handsome and far braver – but he wasn't.

She'd never thought a twelve year old could look so old.

He helped her stand and guided her back out of the Chamber, and he said nothing about the tears flowing down her cheeks. He didn't comfort her; he wasn't her Tom.

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Ginny Weasley's infatuation with Harry Potter died in the Chamber. Her knight in shining armour had been a wicked sorcerer, and the knight that had come to her rescue was far too tarnished to be a hero. But she watched him grown more tarnished and more tainted, and she watched as he refused to give in.

Ginny Weasley fell in love with Harry Potter, not The Boy-Who-Lived, but she never forgot what it was like to love Tom Riddle either. And sometimes…sometimes she would admit to herself that they really were too similar.


End file.
